We Cannot All Control Ourselves
by Werewolf777
Summary: A starved werewolf cannot control its actions, and even then, the silver will be forgotten.Warnings: Slash, Slight HPLV, HPDM, and Violence


**Just a one-shot I made. This is dedicated to my friend I-See-Thestrals. **

**Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters belong to J.K.**

"Parseltongue" 

**Warnings: Slash, Slight HP/LV, HP/DM, and Violence. **

It was only slightly dark out, but not enough to see the full moon that would come. Soon night would blanket the remaining light, and that was what Harry dreaded the most.

The monster beside him caressed his face with long, white fingers, and Harry found himself hating his incapability to move away in disgust.

"_Soon, my sweet, sweet angel_," the Dark Lord hissed in what seemed like a loving tone. He was possessive, insane, evil, but never loving. Not anymore. Lord Voldemort had lost the ability to feel the wonders of love long ago.

_"I hope you **die**,_" Harry hissed back menacingly. He hated the man in front of him. Hated him for what he had done the night of his capture. And the next night. And the next. Harry could never shake off the violated feeling he would always have. Nobody seemed to realize that he was not a possession. No one seemed to care.

Voldemort gave a light, laugh, sending horrible shivers down his spine, "But then I wouldn't be able to give you your present of which I spent so much time preparing. I know you're hungry, Harry."

The boy-who-lived tried to muster up a glare, but could only manage a despondent, saddened look.. Since Voldemort had found out about Harry's condition, he immediately sought out victims for Harry to eat, leaving Harry to fill horribly guilty and in need of love and comfort. This, Voldemort would then take advantage of.

Harry had never been given wolfsbane potion. Voldemort never allowed him any because apparently watching him feast on his loved ones was too much a pleasure. Voldemort had only been able to capture one person anywhere near dear to him or recognizable. Voldemort kept the remains of Hermione's body in Harry's cell.

"_You know you are so beautiful in your form,_" the crimson-eyed man smiled creepily at Harry's body struggling with the chains that kept him down, and almost completely unable to move from his cross-legged position on the floor. "_I know that my Deatheaters and I will certainly enjoy the show._" Voldemort smirked.

His hands slithered into Harry's unruly hair, caressing each strand. Harry stared up at Voldemort with hopeless eyes. "_Please don't make me do it._" He asked, his eyes beginning to burn with tears. "_I can't do it again. Please." _He hated begging, and he hated to have to ask Voldemort of all people for anything. But he could not deal with the guilt.

Fenrir Greyback had bitten him when the war started to get worse. The price of Wolfsbane potion was too much to afford, and Harry had settled to staying sleepless nights every full moon in the shrieking shack with Remus Lupin. But now, Remus was dead. Wasn't almost everyone that was light?

He had forced a necklace upon his husband with a silver spike. He charmed it never to be removed. If he were ever to attack his husband on any day, he told his lover, kill him. And he hoped that's what he did, should the occasion ever arise.

Voldemort never let him near silver. Nothing dangerous he could harm himself with. The Dark Lord would never want to lose his catamite, consort, and whore. Nothing so precious as Harry could be replaced. It was funny to Harry how his uncle could give him so much verbal abuse, calling him freak and ugly all his life, when his worst enemy could call him beautiful, and precious.

"_Oh you can do it. I know you can, because you've done it many other times. Tearing into victims, slashing their skin and ending their worthless lives. And each time, you feel worse and worse. But I'm always there for you, aren't I?_" Voldemort smirked, and Harry knew exactly what he was referring to: the many nights in bed they shared. But Harry never consented to any of it. He honestly felt he deserved it for what he did to the innocent people he killed. Each kill earned him another night of torture of which he had to endure.

"_You horrible, wretched, worthless bas_"- screams filled the barren, grassless area of which they resided, and made the Deatheaters squirm with excitement. For once, it was not them who would get tortured. They were glad to have the Potter boy around, for, the Dark Lord used him to vent any anger he had. Of course, being parseltongue the two spoke in, nobody knew what the conversation was between the two except perhaps the brat had insulted their lord.

"_Never disrespect me again, unless, you would like to be in **there **again._" And again, each knew what Voldemort meant by 'there'. Harry's first few weeks of imprisonment had been in a cell pervaded by dementors. And each day, hour, minute, second, Harry would be reminded of Hermione's shrieks of terror, and every other memory of his life he'd rather not relive. As Harry was on the brink of insanity, they removed him from the room, and even then, a glint of hope had sparked in his eyes. He was placed in a cell instead, where all kinds of torture implements were hanging from ceilings and such. Harry was sure each and everyone had been used on him, some must have still been dripping with recent blood.

Harry nodded weakly, but had refused to call Voldemort master. He had no hope in a better life, but by calling Voldemort anything other than a 'slimy bastard' he was simply giving himself a worse one.

"My Deatheaters, it is time again for the full moon to appear, and young Harry here to feast yet again." There were a few cheers from the Deatheaters at Voldemort's pause. "I think it is time, to show Harry our guest, or _his meal_."

The cheering and laughing Deatheaters did not distract Harry as he tried to twist his head to see who was being brought in.

_Please, _he prayed silently, hoping to God that mercy would be given. _Do not let it be him._

But it was, with only a pair of dark trousers to wear, the captive was brought in unconscious. And soon, the tears Harry had been holding in, those that were unshed, flowed slowly down his face.

Harry could not bear to see Draco awake confused, and scared to his surroundings. He could not stand to see the pitiful site, which made Draco seem so much younger and vulnerable than he usually was.

Draco's frightened eyes looked around, and realization hit him at the sight of Harry. The emerald-eyed teen saw his platinum-hair husband mouth a disbelieving "No."

"Please!" Harry shouted, and this time in language for all to hear, for perhaps it would please Voldemort to have Harry beg in front of all his Deatheaters. "Do not make me do this- anything you want, you can have"-

"What do I not already have from you Harry that I cannot get now?" Voldemort said slyly, pointing his wand at the sobbing child. Voldemort nodded to two Deatheaters and Harry felt déjà vu as he felt himself in the same situation he had experienced many times before. The pre-guilt and dread of all the madness.

"Please! I'm begging you! I'm"- Harry felt a pain in his shoulder, and he grasped it instinctively. He slowly looked up at Voldemort with fearful eyes.

"Ah, and so the transformation begins." Voldemort laughed and icy, shrill laugh that accompanied those of the Deatheaters.

Harry turned to Draco, who did not wear a scared look anymore. It was…understanding and loving. He wore a smile, as if already accepting death. And he sobbed harder, for Voldemort had starved him for nearly a week and half, and it would be a gruesome, horrible death for Draco.

Another jolt in Harry's stomach now, trailing up his spine and down his ankles made him aware. He was close to Draco now, so close. And he whispered, "Use the necklace Draco." It was there, Harry saw, and if Harry died, he would be able to be saved from the hell he was in.

Draco's hand caressed Harry's chin. "I'll always love you, you know." Draco whispered back, and still in that same joyful tone.

"Dammit, Draco! Use the chain! Remember what we discussed?"

Draco's response was a light kiss a light kiss, short but sweet, and not even the Deatheaters jeers could reach Harry's ears and break the moment of Harry's despair.

"Draco?" Harry sobbed, "I can't- I can't kill you." Harry's voiced raised high broken. "Please, just do this for me. I'm sick of begging. Let me beg for something once, and actually receive it. Please." But no more was said from Harry, for by then his howl to the moon had rung through the area, and he eagerly advanced on Draco.

He didn't tell Draco he loved him. But Draco did, and he guessed that was all he needed to hear.

And at the end of the night, amongst the fresh blood and bones, the silver chain lay forgotten.

If you liked it, loved it, hated it, review.


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